


Fire & Ice

by Adaka



Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: 1920s, Detective!Dallon, Detective!Patrick, Mobster!Brendon, Murder Mystery, Prohibition, Speakeasies, sure, those tags look good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-26 05:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9864944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adaka/pseuds/Adaka
Summary: On a chilly September night, a murder occurs near a local dry bar. Now it's up to two detectives, Dallon and Patrick, to solve the case. Together they'll stop at nothing to get the information they need, even if it means bending some of the rules.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, I made sure to completely finish this fic before I posted it online so I don't end up abandoning it like I did with a few other of my fics. I'd say this is one of my finest works and when reading, pay attention to the tiny details. Let's see if you can solve the case before the detectives do.

**Prologue**  
  
A sliver of the moon shone up in the sky as whips of clouds passed over it, illuminating a very faint glow over the abandoned city road. Ray's bar, The Nitty, had only recently closed about half an hour ago, leaving enough time for the late nighters to have staggered away. Not that they should have any reason to seeing as seven years ago a prohibition began across the country. But that didn't stop a series of speakeasies to pop up, hidden away inside barbershops or dry bars by a false floorboard or sliding wall panel to reveal a bustling social zone inside.  
  
But now, at this hour, there was nobody around. The perfect time to escape. no one could see you, no one could stop you. He knew it had been a mistake to go out in the first place, especially when someone wanted you dead.  _You should've just paid them back_ , he repeated to himself over and over in his head.  
  
He stuffed his hands into his pockets to hide them from the chilly, mid September air as a subtle sound echoed behind him. Footsteps. Tipping his white gambler down to hide his face, he looked hast the rim and kept walking at a slightly faster pace.  _Just have to get home_ , he thought to himself,  _You'll be safe there._  
  
But the footsteps were approaching, growing louder with each passing second, closer and closer until they just stopped. He shakily inhaled and made a daring move to turn around, to see if the owner of the footsteps had disappeared. If it had all just been a dramatic hoax created by his racing mind.  
  
Unfortunately that was far from the truth.  
  
Face to face  he was met with someone he knew all to well. The face he had tried to escape from for what felt like forever. It sure had been a long two months. "I warned you, now it's time to pay your debt," the person had said, eyes blacked out from the moon's shadows.  
  
There was a fait glimmer as the light caught a metal surface that had been pulled out, then a loud crack broke the silence as a gun fired, shooting him dead. The shooter then slid the gun back into their coat pocket and walked away. Finally, the debt had been paid.  


* * *

  
**Chapter One**  
  
"Did you find anything new about the case?" Patrick asked, walking up to his detective partner, Dallon, who was leaning back against his chair, head back and eyes closed. "Dallon?"  
  
The taller mad seemed surprised by his name suddenly being called out and looked over at his partner. "What?" he asked in a drowsy voice.  
  
Patrick shook his head, took a sip from his coffee mug before repeating his question. "Did you find anything more about the case? The one where we're supposed to figure out who killed the Kid?"  
  
"Oh yeah, yeah," Dallon quickly nodded, sitting up straight and stretching out his arms in front of him. "No. His brother was no help. At all."  
  
"Well we do know it happened near The Nitty. Maybe that's a clue?" Patrick shrugged.  
  
"Maybe," Dallon said, looking around to make sure no one was listening in on them, then turned back to Patrick, leaning in closer to him, "I think I may know someone who could help us out there."  
  
"Really? Who?" Patrick asked, a little too loud, causing Spencer, the chief of police, to glance over at them from where he sat at his desk, head hung over a stack of files.   
  
Dallon silently put a finger over his lips to silence the fellow detective before whispering, "Follow me."  
  
Patrick nodded, watched as Dallon slipped on his long, black coat and followed him out of the building. Adjusting his fedora due to the sudden burst of wind, Patrick tried again, "Who are we going to see?"  
  
"You'll see," Dallon answered, looking straight ahead as they walked to his car parked on the side of the street.  
  
The drive only lasted a few minutes, but each minute felt like forever to Patrick as his curiosity bubbled. Wondering who it could be Dallon was talking him to, who was this secret source that no one could know about.  
  
Once the car had finally come to a stop, Patrick stared out the window at the red, brick building across the street. A long, painted sign that read 'The Nitty' in big blocky letters hung above the door and front window. Three bullet holes had made their way through the front door, exposing the dark wooden surface underneath the dusty fern paint. Alcohol may be illegal in these parts, but that didn't stop the bootleggers from making a quick profit.  
  
Stepping inside, Patrick felt the warm sun shining through the window on his face, bring a slight relief from the chilly wind that whispered past him outside. Dust particles became visible in the stuffy atmosphere of the nearly empty bar. Against the wall behind the counter held a long mirror behind a series of shelves that held now empty bottles. "Afternoon boys," a voice sounded from behind the bar. "What can I get for you two?"  
  
"Afternoon, Ray," Dallon returned the greeting, leaning against the bar. The bartender, rather owner of the bar, wore a white button down shirt, sleeves rolled up halfway with a gray vest over the shirt. Looking off at the few stray people in the bar, Dallon returned his gaze to Ray and said so only the tree of them could hear, "Not very thirsty today, perhaps I'll try the clams."  
  
Ray was silent for a quick moment, holding contact with Dallon's blue eyes before giving a nod, "Right this way."  
  
He led the two detectives to the back room that contained only an old, weathered medicine cabinet that stood only a few inches taller than Dallon. The inside shelves were caked with a fine layer of dust, and spider webs seemed to cling to every corner. A few flat glass bottles lay across the shelves, the dust making it near impossible to read the labels or even tell what colors the bottles are. Very carefully, Ray positioned himself at the end of the cabinet and rolled it to the side, causing the old wheels to create a faint squeaking sound.  
  
Behind the old wooden structure revealed a long, grey stone tunnel illuminated by a string of handing, candle lit lamps casted down from the ceiling. The two detectives stepped inside the tunnel, Patrick watched as the entrance was covered back up, leaving the two in the near darkness. "What is this?" Patrick asked to his partner, although the shorter detective felt as if he knew  _exactly_ what he was being led into.  
  
"Just follow me," Dallon said, walking through the shadow covered hallway.  
  
The further down they got, the more the noises grew. The unmistakable sound of social activity; laughing, singing and even a few shouts that could've been from a fight or a call from across the room. "Your source is in an illegal bar?" Patrick asked, turning to Dallon.   
  
"Yeah," Dallon nodded, though it was barely visible in the dim light. "Before I joined with the police, I was involved in some rather... not so legal activities. I guess I could never turn in all my own connections. I'd make far too many enemies that way."  
  
"So you just let everyone run free?" Patrick asked, earning a half shrug from Dallon. "What exactly did you do before you became a detective?"  
  
"Look, Pat, now's not the time to dig into my past," Dallon stated, "Now come on, we're almost there."  
  
At the end of the tunnel illuminated a think, long, yellow cloth that acted as a makeshift door. A sudden wave of clapping and shouting momentarily drowned out their thoughts from the other side of the cloth. Th two detectives exchanged one final glance before pushing the fabric aside and stepped through.  
  
They took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the bright, lively atmosphere. Completely opposite compared to what it was like in the previous bar. The eruption of applause from before was caused due to the establishment's entertainer sashaying herself around on stage. The long, silver and gold fringes at the end of her dress swayed across at her knees as she danced along to the beginning of the song. Stepping up to the microphone, she bent an arm over the top of her head to reveal the long, black silk gloves that went past her elbows before filling the entire speakeasy with song. "That's Victoria," Dallon informed Patrick, motioning towards her and looking for a place to sit. "She's the entertainer here and sure as hell good at getting information out of people."  
  
"Do you speak from personal experience?" Patrick curiously asked.  
  
"Nah," Dallon shook his head, eventually finding a place for them to sit within the forest of occupied round tables.  
  
"Is she your source then?"  
  
"Nope," Dallon simply answered, earning an annoyed huff from Patrick.  
  
He was sick of his partner not letting him in on anything. "Well then who is it?" Patrick demanded.  
  
Dallon silently glanced over at him and said, "You seem tense, maybe you should loosen up a bit. Get yourself a drink."  
  
"No," Patrick shook his head, "I want to know. Tell me."  
  
The taller man sighed and said, "The thing about my source is... you don't just go up to him. You must wait until he appears and you have permission to speak with him."  
  
"Well how long until he appears?" Patrick impatiently asked, crossing his arms.  
  
"Who knows," Dallon shrugged, leaning back on his wooden chair, slowly taking in his surroundings.  
  
A little over two hours they spent sitting at that table. Waiting. During that time, Dallon was faced with a string of questions from Patrick, to which most of them he responded with rather bland  answers.  
  
"How long does it take before he usually shows up?"  
  
"Depends."  
  
"How will you know when he arrives?"  
  
"You'll know."  
  
"How many times have you been here before?"  
  
"A lot."  
  
"Will you tell me now what you used to do before you became a detective?"  
  
"Maybe later."  
  
"How come you never spoke of this place before."  
  
"Because it's illegal."  
  
"Are you well known here?"  
  
"Kinda."  
  
However, throughout the two hour waiting period, Dallon  _did_ manage to convince Patrick to get a drink, even if it was a small one. "I shouldn't be drinking this," Patrick said, giving a nervous laugh and holding the small glass with both hands, close to his mouth.  
  
"Don't worry, I won't tell," Dallon gave him a tiny reassuring wink before taking a drink of his own.  
  
Over two hours into their wait, around when Patrick finally manged to finish his drink, a large commotion broke out by the front bar. "Let's go check it out," Dallon said, getting up and heading towards the occurrence, a small crowd already forming.  
  
"I told you before, I'm not giving you anything more!" someone shouted.  
  
"Well why not? I have the same right to drink here as everyone else!" another, more slurred voice, angrily shot back.  
  
"Not when you keep skipping out on the bar tab," the first one stated. "Now pay up or get the fuck out!"  
  
Dallon and Patrick had finally managed to weave their way through the crowd of people and were able to see the two causing the conflict. "You see the bartender?" Dallon whispered to Patrick, referring to the man who stood around the same height as Dallon with tanned skin and dark hair that appeared to be a little unkempt due to his constant rushing around behind the bar. A pair of black suspenders and bow-tie were set over a white button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up part way "His name is Gabe Saporta. Sometimes people around here have been known to call him Ice."  
  
"Why?" Patrick interrupted.  
  
"There could be a few reasons behind it. It could be from his flashy, all white suits. Or maybe from his expert drink making skills," Dallon explained, "But there's the most common theory about how cold he can turn if you leave those bar tabs unpaid. What you're seeing here is just the start. It'll get much worse if that whale keeps cheating him out of the money."  
  
"So is Gabe your source?" he asked.  
  
"Patrick, if Gabe was my source, we could've been sitting at the bar this whole time. So no."  
  
The conflict was still proceeding as they spoke, the angry drunk shouting out a few choice phrases at the bartender who appeared to brush it off as if the words were just another smudge on his finely polished glasses.  
  
But a moment later, the entire bar was casted in silence. Even the band stopped playing. "Ryan, Ryan, Ryan," a voice slowly called from the other end of the bar outside of the crowd. a voice as smooth as honey but could cut like glass. It was so quiet you could even make out the sound of his fingertips drumming against the furnished bar surface. "How many times are you going to interrupt my game with your  _foolish_ nonesence? You've been given far too many warnings by my boys h ere. And now, your luck has just struck out. Take him away, do what you must. I don't ever want to see or hear from him again."  
  
"Wait, please no," Ryan tried to scramble away, but was caught by three men. Though they were all shorter than him, it would probably be best not to pick a fight with any.  
  
As the three dragged Ryan away, the crowd resumed their chatting, through it wasn't as loud as it was prior to the fight. Patrick then frantically whispered to Dallon who was looking off in the direction the voice came from, "What are they going to do to him? Should we do something?"  
  
"Probably not," Dallon distantly answered, distracted in his own though, "Follow me."  
  
"Where are we going?" Patrick asked, following after the taller man.  
  
But this time, Dallon didn't respond.  
  
When Dallon stopped,  Patrick looked ahead and saw he had good reason to. Sitting against the bar was a man taller than Patrick, but not quite as tall as Dallon. He wore a finely tailored, black suit that appeared as if not a single speck of dirt dared to settle on the fine fabric. Tucked underneath the suit jacket he wore a diagonally stripped tie with the alternating colors of black and the same shade of red as spilled blood. He had one foot propped up on the middle ring of the neighboring bar stool, wearing polished shoes that made the stars in the sky seem dull. Rested upon his head he wore a black trilby, a grey ring of fabric circling the base. It was tipped down just enough to where you could barely make out his brown eyes.  
  
The way he sat, an elbow on the bar and a hand holding up his head made it appear from a glance that he wished to be anywhere else. But as he took another drag from the cigarette in his other hand, looking into his lively eyes, you could tell that was far from the truth. The way he watched over the entire bar, slowly exhaling a cloud of smoke made it seem as if he owned the place. And judging by the gold rings placed on the last three fingers of his right hand, he just may.  
  
"Is that... I thought he was dead," Patrick quickly whispered to his partner.  
  
"That's what he wanted you all to think. Had to get you off his trail somehow," Dallon whispered back. Clearing his throat, he said more authoritative, "Brendon."  
  
"What," he answered in a rather bored sounding voice, taking another drag from his cigarette and not bothering to glance over.  
  
"May we have a word with you. In private," Dallon said.  
  
"In private?" Brendon looked up a bit, glancing over this time, "At least buy me a drink first."  
  
When Dallon didn't respond, Brendon sighed, took a drink of the amber colored liquid next to him and said, "Fine. Just wait for my boys to get back."  
  
"No. I said private," Dallon stated.  
  
"And I said wait until my boys get back," Brendon snapped, slamming his drink down against the bar.  
  
"Fine," Dallon snapped back, him and Brendon holding their intense gaze before Brendon turned away to breathe in his ignited cigarette once more.  
  
Patrick alternated his glance between the two, more questions arising. It's obvious that they know each other from somewhere, that there's history between them. But he knew if he asked Dallon about it, he'd only give another 'maybe later' response.  
  
Brendon resumed his silent watch over the bar while Dallon impatiently waited where he stood with arms crossed.  
  
About ten minutes of waiting and Brendon's boys had finally returned. "Alright, now that we're all here," Brendon calmly began, putting out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray and rising from his bar stool, "We can head back for that meeting."  
  
Brendon led the way to his back room, his three boys right behind him to set a dividing line between  him and the two detectives.  
  
Unlocking the door with a fancy golden key Brendon pulled from his front pants pocket, he lightly nudged the door open and stepped inside, expecting everyone else to follow.  
  
The inside of the room held a very faint smoky aroma, a mixture of cigarettes, cigars, and the few gold colored candles scatted about. A poker table was set up in the middle of the room, the cards all lay face down with money and an assortment of colored poker chips were stacked in the middle. A long, wooden personal bar was rested against the side wall. One half held glasses of all sizes crowding the shelves while the other half held alcohol bottles that included brands that were more common on the bottom and some more rare or even never heard of way at the top. A long, narrow mirror about a foot in width divided the two sections. The cabinets below were securely locked to keep whatever treasures inside hidden.  
  
A dark, wooden desk with an overly large red, leather chair rested by the wall facing the door. A short stack of papers were filed on top a brown, leather briefcase. An empty glass that held only the remains of melted ice cubes lay rested on a cork coaster placed near the brass desk lamp. A few fountain pens were scattered about the surface as well as a few knick knacks he'd collected through his days. along the wall facing the bar lay an elegant leather sofa that matched the chair behind the desk. An elaborate grandfather clock towered in the corner near the foot of the couch, casting a faint ticking sound throughout the room.  
  
"Sit, sit," Brendon waved a hand around the room, taking a seat in the chair behind the desk, leaning back.  
  
Patrick was about to head for the sofa but Dallon pulled him back and whispered, "I suggest you don't sit there."  
  
"Frank, would you get me some ice please," Brendon asked, raising his glass to the side for the one called Frank to take it, then asked the detectives, "You two want anything?"  
  
"No thanks, we just want to ask a few questions," Patrick shook his head.  
  
"Fair enough," Brendon shrugged, receiving back  his glass from Frank. "Oh, Patrick I assume? These are my boys, Frank, Joe, and Andy. Don't mess with them, they'll fuck you up."  
  
"Oh, um... nice to meet you," Patrick quietly said, giving them a tiny wave to where they all sat around the poker table.  
  
"Anyways, down to business," Brendon said, gathering everyone's attention and placing a half empty bottle onto the wooden surface from a drawer under the desk. "I believe you two wanted to talk to me about something. Speak up now before I get bored and kick you out."  
  
"We need information about the Kid's murder, you wouldn't happen to know anything, would you?" Dallon asked.  
  
"Ah, the Kid," Brendon looked down at his glass as he poured the dark amber liquor in with the ice, "Should've known that's why you'd come to me. I mean, why else would you come visit these days."  
  
Brendon paused for a moment while he placed the glass bottle back in it's previous location and pulled back his sleeves a bit, revealing the seven tally marks that were tattooed on his left wrist. All the lines were black except for the fifth and sixth tallies which were marked in red. Anyone who knew of Brendon, knew what they represented.  
  
Back when the previous leader of Brendon's mob was in reign, the old mobster was known to be stingy and trigger happy. Always taking advantage of everyone and killing people off for the smallest reasons That was until Brendon decided to take a stand for everyone. With his boys at his side, he marched into the previous mobster's office, said 'It's my turn to take control' then shot him right in the head and continued his speech saying 'And I'll be doing it right'. That had resulted in Brendon's first kill. From that point on, Brendon wanted to make sure each time that he brought someone's life to an end, it would be from a good reason.  
  
"How much do you already know?" Brendon asked, picking up his glass and raising it to his lips.  
  
"Honestly, not very much," Patrick admitted with a small sigh.  
  
"Hm, too bad. Cause sometimes the information you're looking for is right under your nose. Maybe you should try looking deeper into something more closer to you," Brendon spoke slowly, gradually shifting his gaze between the two detectives.  
  
"We're not here for your riddles," Dallon said, shooting him a glare, "Tell us what we want to know."  
  
"And what would that be again?" Brendon asked, tilting his head to the side, playing dumb.  
  
"Do you know who the killer is?" Patrick nicely asked.  
  
Brendon was silent for a moment as he kept switching his stare between Dallon and Patrick before shaking his head a little and said, "Sorry, I just can't get over the height difference between you two. But to your question, Patrick. You could say that I perhaps know who the killer is maybe. But then again, what would I know."  
  
"How do we know that  _you're_ not the killer?" Dallon asked, a bit impatient.  
  
Brendon made a small laugh from this question and said, "Oh Dally, I think we both know that's not the case."  
  
"Is there anything else that you know?" Patrick tried again, watching as the mobster fiddled with a pen on his desk.  
  
"There's a lot of things I know, that's for sure," Brendon glanced up at them, swirling his drink around, causing the ice cubes to clank against the polished glass. "But there's one thing I'll let you in on; and that's the fact that fire and ice don't always mix."  
  
Patrick opened his mouth, about to ask what he meant by that. But before the smaller detective could get anything out, Andy stood up and escorted the two out of the hazy room.  
  
Before the door could be completely slammed in their faces, Dallon whispered something to Andy and appeared to hand him something hidden away in the inside pocket of his long coat. Patrick tried to see what it was that he had given Andy, but Dallon blocked the way, then the door had been fully closed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops, it's been a while since I last updated this, I was away for two months, but I'm back now so here's this chapter

Patrick had just pulled into the police station, ready for yet another exhilarating day of looking over the same evidence to see if anything had been missed from this case. However, the previous day had been a little exciting, seeing as him and his partner had gone into an illegal bar to meet up with a mobster that is actually not dead. Dallon was pretty quiet the rest of the day, parting ways rather quickly once they returned to their stations in the office.  
  
Going up to the third floor where his desk resides, he searched for his detective partner. Right away, Patrick could tell he wasn't at his desk, because even sitting, Dallon seemed to stick out. "Hey Pete, have you seen Dallon today?" Patrick asked the deputy who was filling up on his morning coffee.  
  
"Oh yeah, he called in this morning and said he was sick," Pete shrugged, "Guess you're on your own today."  
  
"On my own," Patrick said to himself, then thanked Pete as he walked to his desk.  
  
Looking over the case file, Patrick remembered how Dallon said the Kid's brother was no help to the case, at all. But looking through the evidence, there was no sign of the interview anywhere. Not even a little note about anything that was said.  _Perhaps Dallon just had the files about the interview back at his desk,_ Patrick thought.  
  
Putting all the case information back, Patrick decided to try elsewhere. Locating one of the last filing cabinet drawers in the room where all the criminal records were held, he pulled it open causing a squeaking sound to bounce off the tiled floors.  
  
Searching through the tan folders, the detective's gaze shot farther down the row of tabs than he intended to, noticing a name that was all to familiar to him. A folder that could either answer so many questions, or bring up a whole set of new ones.  
  
He stood there for a moment, hunched over the drawer. A finger rested on the opening of the folder, debating whether or not he should read the contents inside.  
  
Eventually curiosity got the best of him.  
  
Patrick looked behind him to make sure no one was around before he slowly slid out the file that was labeled Weekes, Dallon J.  
  
There was a slight thickness to the folder, leading Patrick to wonder if his partner was once involved with Brendon's mob. Delicately he opened the folder as if it were a century old book that held the answers to all the universe's mysteries. However in this case, it just may answer a few.  
  
Paper clipped to the front flap of the folder were several police reports that were filed up to seventeen years ago. On the other side had a whole jumble listed evidence from different cases, a few pictures were also scattered in the mix. But before Patrick could get a good look at anything more, he heard a pair of footsteps approaching the closed door. Jamming Dallon's folder back into it's rightful place, he quickly pulled out the folder for the Kid and shoved the drawer shut, the echoing click of metal rolling against metal as the door swung open.  
  
"Here he is," Pete said behind him, leading in a taller man around Dallon's height, wearing khaki pants, a brown newsboy hat, white button up shirt and blue plaid tie. "Patrick, this is Ryland. He works with the newspapers and would like to ask you a few questions about the case you're working on."  
  
"I honestly don't know much yet," Patrick admitted. "There's so many pieces missing out. But can try and answer what I can. But here's probably not the best to talk, follow me back to my desk?"  
  
"Yeah, that sounds good," Ryland agreed, looking up at a flickering light in the top corner of the room.  
  
When they reached Patrick's desk, the detective set the Kid's file to the side, earning a curious look from the reporter. "So," Ryland began sliding into a nearby chair and pulled out a notepad and pencil. "Are you the only one working on this case?"  
  
"No, there's also my partner Dallon."  
  
"What do you know about the murder itself? The cause of death."  
  
"Well, we know that the victim was shot in the chest." Patrick paused for a moment to sift through the case's files before continuing, "And the bullet then punctured through the right lung, he most likely died within minutes."  
  
"Do you know what weapon was used?"  
  
"The bullet was fired from a .45 caliber pistol."  
  
"Any leads on who the killer was?"  
  
"I can't give away that information," Patrick shook his head, "I'm not going to wrongfully convict someone just because of a hung. And I'm not even sure if I even have that."  
  
"I understand," Ryland sounded a bit disappointed, lightly tapping his pencil against his paper. "Is there anything else you can share? Anything you may have heard?"  
  
"Anything I may have heard..." Patrick repeated, partly to himself, recalling the events of the previous day. "Uh, no. No. Sorry I couldn't be much help. Thank you for stopping by, but I have work to do."  
  
"No, no thank you detective, for not driving me off," Ryland said, standing up and shaking the detective's hand, "I'll see you around. Good luck on the case."  
  
Patrick thanked him and watched as he left. Ryland's last question did in fact bring up a memory. The last words Brendon said to them before him and Dallon left.  _Fire and ice don't always mix.  
  
Fire and ice never mix. However Dallon _ did _say he spoke in riddles. Perhaps if I talked to Brendon alone..._ Patrick thought, then pushed aside the idea.  
  
Dallon knew what he was doing when they went there. He had a reputation. And Patrick, he had a reputation elsewhere. Somewhere more legal.  
  
Patrick had always been good with the law. Following the rules, doing what he could to solve these cases the right way. But the more he thought about it, the more he suspected the place to find the truth lie down that stone hallway. Brendon knew more than he was giving out, Patrick figured that much. So making the final decision, the detective neatly placed the files off to the side and stood up.  _If i'm gonna solve this, I may need to bend the rules.  
  
_ -*-*-  
  
Standing by the front door of The Nitty with one hand pressed against the faded paint, Patrick hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not he should go through with this. "If Dallon can do this and not get caught, then so can you," Patrick said to himself before pushing open the front door.  
  
He was once again greeted by the dusty atmosphere. Though the door was unlocked, Patrick assumed he was the only one in the bar. That is, until he heard a voice from the other end of the bar firmly state, "Isn't it a bit early for the booze hounds to be rolling up?"  
  
"Booze hounds? And here I thought this was a dry bar," Patrick joked, though he sounded more nervous than he intended to.  
  
"Well it is," Ray stared directly at Patrick, noticing the nervousness. "What are you, a cop?"  
  
"No," Patrick shook his head. Well, technically he wasn't lying since he's a detective.  _That's different than a cop, right?_  
  
"Hmm," Ray looked him over, trying to decide whether to believe him or not, "If you're not here to drink, than what are you here for? Breakfast? We have pancakes."  
  
Patrick declined the offer and said, "I'm here to talk to Brendon."  
  
"Brendon? Brendon Urie?" Ray gave a laugh, "Haven't you heard? He's been dead for a few years now."  
  
"If Brendon died a few years ago, then who was it Dallon brought me to meet up with yesterday? Patrick crossed his arms.  
  
"You're friends with Dallon?" Ray turned serious again, "You know, now that I recall, I think I may remember you with him yesterday. Where is he?"  
  
"Sick."  
  
"Then you're pretty gutsy to come around these parts and demand to see the boss without your connection here."  
  
"Yeah..." Patrick looked down at the floor, feeling unsure about doing this again.  
  
"How about this, for your determination, I'll let you in. What happens when you get down there? Well that's just between you and the boys," Ray said, beckoning Patrick to follow him back.  
  
"By that, do you mean Brendon's boys?" Patrick asked.  
  
"Sure do, don't piss them off or else you just might end up disappearing," Ray then pushed aside the dusty cabinet.  
  
"Is... is that a threat?" Patrick demanded, though the stutter betrayed his intended tone.  
  
"No sir," Ray smirked, "Just a careful warning. Now on you go."  
  
Careful, as if any step could set off a trap, Patrick made his way into the tunnel and before he could object to his plan, the door had been closed. Setting forth his fate.  
  
It probably took him longer than it should've to reach the end of the stone walk way, but some how the detective managed to make it to the end.  
  
Standing by the yellow curtain, Patrick had to really listen for the faint murmuring that proved the hidden bar was occupied. He rose a hand up to the curtain to pus it aside, only to reveal his hand was shaking.  _Perhaps this was a bad idea_ , Patrick thought, unable to look away from or lower his trembling hand,  _But then again I_ need _to know._  
  
The detective forced himself to swallow down his fear and push himself past the curtain. Whatever murmur of sounds there was in the quiet, nearly uninhabited bar quickly extinguished from the air once they took notice to the new arrival.  
  
"Um... h-i," Patrick tried to stay strong, attempting a small wave.  
  
"And what do we have here?" the one Patrick remembered was Frank, was the first one to speak up.  
  
"It appears we have a wanderer," Joe said, setting down his stack of money with the rest. A briefcase just like the one on Brendon's desk the previous day lay open at the other end of the circular table.  
  
For a moment, Patrick thought about turning around and sprinting away. He could get a good head start, the three were only in the center of the large room. But there's only so far you can go in a closed off stone tunnel. Instead he stood his ground and stated, "I'm here to talk to Brendon."  
  
"Everyone wants to talk to Brendon it seems," Frank sighed, sorting through his stack, "Just a shame not too many people who come wandering in before hours get very far."  
  
Frank then set down all the money he was counting, stood up and pointed a gun directly at Patrick. "You have five seconds to convince me not to pull the trigger. Five."  
  
"I..." Patrick's hands were up in front of him, staring down the barrel of the gun. Five seconds wasn't nearly enough, it seemed that it would take him five seconds just to be able to force anything more out.  
  
"Four."  
  
This man was serious, and why wouldn't he be. Dallon warned him that these three weren't people you mess with. Dallon.  
  
"Three."  
  
"Wait wait wait," Patrick stammered, "Dallon, I... I would've come here with Dallon but he's sick today. We were here yesterday, remember?"  
  
There was a moment of silence. The gun was still raised, but at least the counting had stopped. "I remember you," this time it was Andy who spoke, "You're the little gumshoe who's clearly out of his element."  
  
"I was just following Dallon yesterday, I had control of where I was going," Patrick defended himself.  
  
"You're not following Dallon this time," Frank narrowed his eyes, "You didn't bring anyone with you, did you?"  
  
"No no, I'm all alone," Patrick stammered, looking over at the gun that was still pointed in his direction. Definitely a bad idea to come here.  
  
"Good," Frank said, re-aiming his gun at Patrick again, "Then nobody will know what happens to you."  
  
"Oh god, please no," Patrick whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. This isn't how it was supposed to go at all.  
  
"Hey, I know you," Brendon's voice called from across the speakeasy.  
  
"Don't worry, Brendon. I was just about to get rid of him," Frank said without taking his eyes off Patrick.  
  
"What did he want?" Brendon asked in a serious tone as he went and stood by Frank.  
  
"He said he wanted to talk to you. Didn't even make an appointment, just popped in. Witnessed all this here yet besides. Can't let him get away with that," Frank explained.  
  
"Hmm..." Brendon thought, looking over Patrick who was still quivering in his spot, then took a look around the area, "I'll let it slide. Patrick, follow me. I'll give you a chance to talk."  
  
The detective was hesitant at first, then quickly followed after Brendon as he slowly strided towards the bar. "Sorry about my boys," Brendon said once they were both seated, "They mean well."  
  
"I'm... sure they do," Patrick glanced back at the three. Frank had seated himself and they resumed their counting, quietly whispering amongst themselves once more.  
  
There was a second of silence as the bartender went over by them, looked at Brendon and asked, "Can I get you anything, sir?"  
  
"Just the usual," Brendon said, glancing over at Gabe before turning his attention back to Patrick. "You want anything?"  
  
"I uh... no thank you, I can't..." Patrick shook his head.  
  
"Hm, Gabriel, bring me something from my personal hoard," Brendon casually ordered the bartender a key attached to a small chain that held a collection of several other polished keys, "Make sure it's something good, and don't keep us waiting."  
  
"Yes, sir," Gabe nodded, taking the key after Brendon's drink had been poured then disappeared into the room Brendon had led Patrick and Dallon into the previous day.   
  
"I really can't," Patrick tried his hardest to decline the offer, "It's sort of illegal, plus I'm on duty..."  
  
"This isn't illegal, trust me," Brendon reassured. "Those silly prohibition laws state that i is against the law to manufacture and sell alcohol. And I admit, what we're doing here is highly illegal but I trust you'll keep your pretty little mouth shut." Brendon flashed a smile at the last part, his glass close to his lips before taking a sip and continuing. "However, it is perfectly legal to consume the alcohol that you have purchased  _before_ the prohibition laws took place. Just as long as you don't make a profit off it, it's perfectly legal to own."  
  
By now the bartender had returned with a dark, glass bottle with a light purple label. "How's this?" Gabe asked, setting the keys next to the bottle.  
  
"That'll be fine," Brendon said tipping the bottle away from him to study it more then turned towards Patrick. "How's this?"  
  
"Um..." Patrick stared at the bottle. He  _was_ a little tempted. After all, Brendon  _did_ say it wasn't illegal to drink this particular one, since it was his before the prohibition began.  
  
"How about just a small glass?" he offered in a voice that could swindle anyone to do just about anything.  
  
Eventually Patrick agreed, he didn't want to be rude after all. Once Gabe finished pouring the drink, Brendon told him 'that'll be all' and watched as the bartender walked off.  
  
"So, uh, Brendon sir, if you don't mind me asking..." Patrick began, carefully holding the glass between his hands without taking a drink.  
  
"You don't need to call me sir, just Brendon is fine," he interrupted.  
  
"Then why does he...?" Patrick trailed off, quickly looking over at Gabe who was preoccupied with cleaning a set of glasses.  
  
"I don't know," Brendon shrugged, taking a quick drink, "He's just always done that. I've grown used to it."  
  
The detective nodded then corrected himself, "Brendon. Why didn't you just let them shoot me? Why save me when you barely even know me."  
  
Brendon was silent for a moment before he quietly said, "Because, there's a lot of things you haven't' figured out yet."   
  
"What haven't I figured out?" Patrick asked.  
  
Brendon shrugged as he took another sip from his glass, "If I told you, you wouldn't figure it out on your own."   
  
"So you  _do_ know who the killer is!"  
  
Brendon smiled, "I know lots of things, Patrick. I could share them all if I wanted to, but what would be the point of that? You want all the answers? Well so does everyone. But there's only so many answers you're able to get out of me."  
  
"So, if you're having me guess, then how do I know that _you're_ not the killer?" Patrick firmly asked.  
  
"Have you ran that theory through with Dally? Cause I think he can verify that isn't true," Brendon said, flashing him a devious smirk before taking a sip of his dark, amber colored drink, then held the glass closer to his lips as he listened on.  
  
"It's been said that the tally marks you have tattooed on your wrist is to mark each person you've killed. And to be honest, there appears to be more marks since last recorded," Patrick carefully said.  
  
Brendon stared at him for a moment, the building rage becoming visible in his eyes before he slammed the glass down on the bar's surface, causing Patrick to jump and a few drops to fly and splash onto Brendon's hand. Brendon closed his eyes and inhaled before looking dead into Patrick's eyes and spoke in almost a growl, "I make damn sure that the people I purposely kill deserve it. That there's no other way.  
  
"You see these two, how they're red compared to the other five that are black? These two are the ones I constantly remind myself of. Because they're a pair of innocent thirteen year old twins who got caught in the crossfire. I was only shooting at the tires to slow them down, allow my boys to do what they do. But the bullets ricochet off onto the sidewalk and hit them instead. So you better fucking watch your mouth when you talk about these."  
  
"I...I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Patrick looked down, feeling a little ashamed for prying on a touchy subject. "I'm just trying to figure this out, and we have no leads and I'm just a little stressed out right now. I should go..."  
  
"Now hold up," Brendon gently placed a hand on his shoulder to prevent the detective from going anywhere. His tone immediately softening to the tone that he uses to persuade people stay. "Now there must've been another reason for you to come here other than asking about the case."  
  
"What if that's all I want to know?" Patrick looked up at him.  
  
"Is it?"  
  
"No," he whispered, looking back down.  
  
"What do you want to know about?"  
  
"Dallon."  
  
"Dallon? Now we're getting somewhere. Why do you want to know about him? He is your partner, isn't he?"  
  
"Yeah, but you two seem to have history. And earlier today, I found his criminal record. I didn't get a good look at it, but I thought you might be able to explain further," Patrick rambled.  
  
"Yeah, he's a fiery one, isn't he?" Brendon snorted, taking a drink, "But I'm not sure how much I should let you in on."  
  
"Anything, I don't care," Patrick leaned in a tiny bit, dying to find out about  _something._ Nobody would tell him anything, it's about time he got some piece of information, no matter how small.  
  
Brendon made a soft humming sound, tapping his rings against the glass as he thought of what to say. "Before we met. Before we formed our depts to each other, Dallon preformed sort of a long practice. He was a shark if you will. Temporarily getting people out of fixes they never should've gotten themselves into in the first place. He got caught a few times for what he did, but he always managed to get himself out. He was good at what he did, and I knew he would be useful if he was on my side.  
  
"That team up lasted a while until he decided to drop the lifestyle and become a detective. I thought he was crazy at first. But then he explained how he could keep all this top secret, make it appear to all the other lawmen as if I had disappeared from existence. As you know, he did a damn good job of that. I allowed for him to stay in my circle here rather than casting him out in case he needed an 'inside source'. So yeah, you could say we have history."  
  
Patrick was silent, piecing together all that Brendon had told him, absentmindedly taking a drink from the glass he still held in between his hands.  
  
Brendon laughed and stood up, "It's alright, little gumshoe, take your time. But I'll let you in on one thing that may or  may not be useful. The Kid, he came here a lot, drank a lot too. I'm not always out here, maybe you should talk to someone who is."  
  
He motioned his chin towards the bartender as he took one final swig from his glass before walking off with the keys and bottle.  
  
When Brendon was gone, Patrick got up and sat near where Gabe was working. "Hi," he nervously greeted the bartender, unsure of how to start this conversation. Funny since his job was to get the questions.  
  
"I'd ask if you wanted another drink, but I see you hardly drank any from the one you got there," Gabe said without looking over at him.  
  
"That's not what I'm here for," Patrick said, cupping his hands around the glass as it rested on the bar's polished surface.  
  
"What do you want to know?" he asked, glancing over this time.  
  
"What do you know about the Kid?"  
  
"The Kid?" the bartender shrugged, "Now that you mention it, I haven't seen him around for a few days. Not that I would care. That bastard was always short on the pay. It's no surprise, seeing the amount of dept he racked up while playing the cards."  
  
The way Gabe spoke about the Kid, Patrick realized the bartender had a personal vendetta against him. But he thought twice about asking if he was the killer, especially after how Brendon reacted. Instead he asked, "How much did he owe you?"  
  
"A lot," he stated, looking over at him, "Anything else you'd like to know?"  
  
"Uh yeah, one more thing. Is there another exit out of here?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it, the final chapter. Now it's finally finished for everyone who ever manages to find it to read, so please, I hope you enjoy.

Laid out in front of Patrick, written in frantic,  messy handwriting were notes he took from the previous night. It was pretty sad that a detective had to decode his own handwriting, but yet here was.  
  
The previous night, before he left the bar, the detective downed the remaining half that was left of his drink, which had turned into a very bad idea.  
  
As soon as he got home, Patrick started feeling the effects of the alcohol setting in. But it's not like he did anything illegal by drinking it. Brendon  _did_ say he had possession of it before the alcohol ban took place. So there's no reason to feel guilty about it.  
  
Patrick was almost finished rewriting the notes when he noticed his partner talking to Pete. Pete was no doubt asking if he was feeling better, giving Patrick just enough time to stash away the notes and pull out what turned out to be the Kid's criminal record. Patrick had just begun pretending to read over the folder when heard a 'hey' from Dallon as he sat down in his desk which was diagonally in front of Patrick's. "Hey, feeling better?"  
  
"I guess," Dallon shrugged, "Find anything new out?"  
  
 _Tons,_ he could've said, _Like how you used to be part of Brendon's team and all. How does a loan shark end up becoming a detective?_ But instead, Patrick lied and said, "Not much."  
  
"Not much is better than nothing," Dallon said rather broadly, slowly swiveling his chair back and forth.  
  
Patrick wasn't too sure how Dallon would react once he knew the smaller detective went to go talk to Brendon on his own. But Gabe's statement did raise some questions. Remembering all Gabe said to him, and how he said it, Patrick decided it would be best if Dallon knew as well. They were partners on this case after all.  
  
He quickly noticed Dallon was still waiting for him to further explain so he just had to chose his words carefully. "I may have reasons to suspect the bartender, Gabe, for this."  
  
Nice one.  
  
"How'd you figure that out? We never talked to Gabe, and no one said anything about him. Unless  _you_ did some snooping of your own," Dallon objected, sounding like he already knew where Patrick was the previous day.  
  
Busted.  
  
"I..." Patrick's eyes darted around, looking anywhere but Dallon, " _May_ have done some investigating of my own."  
  
"Mhm. Surprised you were able to get past his boys. What did you learn?"  
  
"Well..." Looking over his notes to where only he could make out what was written, Patrick continued, "When you first told me about Gabe, you mentioned there wcan be consequesnces from him if you don't pay off the bar tab, and he told me how the Kid was always short on paying, due to always losing his money from 'playing the cards'. Plus, the way Gabe talked about the Kid, it was like he had something against him. Of course, I don't know Gabe as well as you probably do."  
  
"No, no. I think you're onto something. Gabe definitely has the capability to croak the Kid," Dallon said, looking away, lost in thought.  
  
"Should we go interrogate him?"  
  
"We could," Dallon shrugged, sounding a little distant. "But even if we canned him, I'm sure Brendon would be able to get him out before he even hits the cooler."  
  
Patrick took notice to Dallon's use of words. He never did break that habit for as long as he's been here, and now Patrick finally knew where he got all those phrases from.  
  
"Even so, we have a lead. The least we can do is follow up on it."  
  
"Yeah," Dallon stood up, "Alright, I guess we'll have to go talk to people."  
  
-*-*-  
  
Outside The Nitty, a fine drizzle had begun raining down, misting over the two detective's coats as well as leaving a speckled layer of water over the top of Patrick's fedora. "Third day in a row, you becoming one of the regulars?" Ray joked when he saw Patrick entering the bar. The atmosphere seemed to be more darker than usual, but then again that could've been due to the overcast.  
  
"Probably not," Patrick shrugged, "I'm just trying to figure something out."  
  
"Aren't we all," Ray sighed, looking up at them, "Just don't go looking too far down the bottle. What can I get for you?"  
  
"That's not what I..." the smaller detective started, only to be interrupted by Dallon answering the code phrase.  
  
After the password had been said, Ray led the two back to the tunnel where they once more made their way down to the speakeasy. At least this time Patrick wasn't as nervous, seeing as he's less likely to get murdered by one of Brendon's associates this time.  
  
At least that's what he hoped.  
  
On the way down, Patrick noticed one of the lights were out and poked Dallon's arm to inform him of this vital information.  
  
"Oh no," Dallon said without much enthusiasm, "You should tells someone later on who's responsible for fixing it."  
  
"Ok," Patrick said softly as they continued walking.  
  
When they got up to the yellow curtain, Dallon pushed it aside, allowing the smaller mad to go through first. "Looks like you were wrong, Frank," Joe looked up from the cards fanned out in his hands, "You didn't scare him away after all."  
  
"Nah, but looks like he didn't come alone. Brought his bodyguard with him this time," Frank laughed.  
  
"I'm not anyone's bodyguard," Dallon grumbled, walking past him.  
  
"Always a loner that one," Frank sighed, rearranging his hand.  
  
Patrick scurried after Dallon once he noticed the taller detective was no longer standing next to him. Dallon stood by the bar, both hands rested against it as Patrick decided to take a seat next to him. "Waiting for Gabe?"  
  
"Yup."  
  
Soon enough, the bartender did appear. What can I get for you two?" Gabe asked, looking more towards Patrick and only giving more shorter glances at Dallon.  
  
"Information," Dallon stated, causing the bartender to look over at him more.  
  
"Yeah. That would be nice, wouldn't it?" Gabe said in a rather snarky tone.  
  
"Um..." Patrick glanced between the two, wondering how many people Dallon didn't get along with here, cause it appears to be a lot. "Would you mind if we asked you some questions about the Kid's murder?"  
  
"You're interrogating me, aren't you?" Gabe stated, saying it as more of a fact than a question as he leaned back against the counter behind the bar, crossing his arms.  
  
"Well..."  
  
"Yes."   
  
"Of course you are," Gabe snorted, "What are you gonna do? Drag me away to a little room and question me?"  
  
"Given the current location you're in," Dallon began, "I don't think that dragging you away would be such a good idea."  
  
"Damn right. Now what the hell do you want from me?"  
  
"I think you know," the taller detective spoke lowly, basically standing at eye level with the man on the other side of the bar.  
  
The two held their gaze with each other for a few moments, Dallon waiting for Gabe to spill something. Patrick resisted the urge to back away from whatever feud was going on between these two, not wanting to get in the middle of any more personal drama.  
  
But then it appeared as if something hit Gabe, a realization of something that had been clawing at the back of his mid for days. Something he couldn't figure out until now had finally come to light. "Where were you on the night the Kid was murdered?" the taller detective whispered.  
  
"I... you..." Gabe stuttered, staggering backwards until he bumped up against the shelves behind.  
  
"Hey, it's alright," Patrick softly joined in, "You just have to tell us what we need to know. Did you kill the Kid?"  
  
"No, I didn't," Gabe spat, still sounding nervous.  
  
"Then you don't have to be afraid. Just answer our questions honestly and we'll leave you be," Patrick continued.  
  
"Yeah, if only it were that easy," Gabe glanced over at Dallon then back at Patrick, "I don't think you fully understand what's going on here little gumshoe."  
  
"Then tell me," Patrick almost begged, sick of the constant lack of knowledge.  
  
"Now it's the right place," he said before darting off through a door only accessible to those behind the bar.  
  
"Looks like we got a runner," Dallon sighed, pulling out his pistol and making sure it was loaded, "I always hate it when they run."  
  
Dallon quickly climbed over the bar, beckoning for Patrick to follow when there was a shout from across the room. "Hey!" Frank yelled, standing up from his position by the table, "You two don't belong back there."  
  
"This is police work," Dallon shouted back, "Go back to your little game."  
  
"Don't you think you're going a little too far with this?" Frank asked, ignoring the detective's command. "We all know Brendon isn't going to be too happy if this gets out of hand."  
  
"Brendon? He can go fuck himself," Dallon slowly said before quickly leaving out the same door Gabe darted through.  
  
"I uh... I'm sure he didn't mean that," Patrick stammered before scurrying after his partner.  
  
Behind the door appeared to be a stone cellar with wooden shelves lined against the wall. Most of the shelves were well stocked with bootlegged alcohol, bottles ranging in all sorts of colors and sizes. "Dallon?" Patrick loudly whispered, his eyes still adjusting to the dim light.  
  
"Over here," Dallon called from across the room.  
  
He stood by another door, this appeared to be made of old metal compared to the fancy wooden one they had just stepped through. "Dallon, what's going on?" Patrick demanded.  
  
"Trying to catch a runner," Dallon answered, back to the simple responses.  
  
Patrick made an irritated exhale which cause Dallon to sigh and add onto his statement. "Patrick, this isn't the time for your questions. He ran off so he's clearly guilty about something. So let's find him and you can go on your question spree later."  
  
"Fine," Patrick huffed.  
  
Behind the rusted, metal door appeared to be the basement for some building, steel pipes mazing about over head. "You know your way around here?" Patrick asked, listening to the tiny dripping sounds that echoed through out the area.   
  
"Course I do, we're in the basement of the old hardware store," Dallon stated, looking around for the exit. "Over here, follow me."  
  
Leading Patrick to the far end of the basement, they climbed up the creaky metal steps that led out to what was most definitely the back storage room of the hardware shop. Tables and shelves were filled with bolts, nuts, tools, anything and everything you can imagine. "You think he's still here?" Patrick asked, just as a creak sounded from the floor above.  
  
"I believe so."  
  
"What hardware store needs two stories?" Patrick asked, partially to himself.  
  
"Three actually," Dallon corrected. "Before this was a hardware store, this was a salon and the other two floors were a brothel. But that closed down a while ago."  
  
Patrick nodded, following Dallon to what appeared to be a broom closet that held an entire set of stairs. At the top of them revealed the dusty remains of what was once the brothel. A series of small rooms covered one side of the floor while the other had couches and tables and chairs all pushed up against the wall. There was a soft rustling sound from across where the two stood and then a quiet click as the door closed shut.  
  
"He must be going to the roof," Dallon noticed, then muttered, "Complete sap."  
  
Following the little sounds Gabe was leaving behind, the two did end up following him to the roof. It was only then that the two detectives spotted him, wildly looking around for a place to go.  
  
"There's nowhere else to run, Gabe," Dallon shouted abovve the heavy rain that poured down, already soaking through their jackets. "You just might as well confess and we can get this all over with."  
  
"Confess what?" Gabe shouted back, steadily backing up until his foot found the edge of the three story drop, "That I killed the Kid, even though I know damn well I never did? Yeah, I'll admit to you both that I was there when it happened, but I didn't shoot him. I saw everything, but knew if I snitched, I'd get offed some how."  
  
"Then why didn't you just come to us secretly?" Patrick calmly asked, desperately trying to figure out a way to back Gabe away from the edge. "We could've protected you."  
  
Gabe forced out a laugh before looking down behind him, then back at the two detectives. "Oh Patrick, no offence, but you're kid of an idiot. You're a detective, how could you have not figured it out by now?"  
  
"We have it figured out," Dallon firmly stated, pointing his pistol at Gabe and pulling back the hammer, "It was you."  
  
"Of course  _you'd_ say so!" Gabe snapped, taking a few steps towards Dallon, pointing his finger, "I wasn't too sure about it before. But now I know. Now I fucking  _know_ that the killer was-"  
  
Even if Gabe did manage to let the name of the killer slip, it was drowned out by the sound of gunfire from Dallon's hand. "Dallon!" Patrick shouted in disbelief, staring at Gabe's body lying across the rain covered, cement roof. "He knew! Why didn't you let him speak?"  
  
"You are an idiot, aren't you Patrick?" Dallon shook his head, pointing the gun at his partner, "All this time, I can't believe you never could figure it out. Even with Brendon's ridiculous little riddles that I kept telling him to knock off. That _I'm_ the one who killed the Kid. If you recalled, before I got into police work I was a bit of a lone shark, too bad old habits are hard to break. The Kid asked for a load, gambled it all away. He couldn't pay it back, so he had to pay it back with his life. It's the deal he made. I couldn't get caught for this, I am a detective after all. Gabe was the perfect one to pin it on, seeing as those two had a bit of unsettled history. But that doesn't mean that everyone else has to know the truth. As far as the media will see, Gabe took out one more victim before he clocked out. Which would be you of course. And in an act of self defense, I had to s hoot Gabe. It's a pity really, you were actually a real good guy."  
  
"Dallon, please. Think about this," Patrick put his hands up, staring down the barrel of the gun as the rain dripped down from it, mixing in with the flooded roof. "I-I swear, I won't tell anyone. I'll do anything, just please, don't shoot me."  
  
"I wish it were that easy," Dallon shrugged, "But I know you would slip up somehow."  
  
"No, no I wont! I swear!" Patrick pled.  
  
"I'm sorry, Pat," Dallon said, just loud enough for him to hear before pulling the trigger on him as well, watching as Patrick fell back onto the rain covered room before he continued, "But like I said, you really were a god guy. It's just a shame it had to end this way."  
  


* * *

  
Epilogue

"Bring him in," Brendon shouted in response to the knock at his office room's door. The ticking of the grandfather clock had been the only sound in the room for what seemed like hours, only riling the mobster up more as he looked over the newspaper in front of him. Reading over the same article again and again.  
  
Pushing their way through the door was Brendon's three boys, Frank, Joe, and Andy escorting a much taller man in front of them. "Sit him down," Brendon ordered, glancing to the chair in front of his desk.  
  
The three rather forcefully shoved the man down into the chair. As he sat, the taller man remained emotionless, staring directly at Brendon, waiting for him to begin his rambling.  
  
Slapping the newspaper down in front of the man the boys had just brought in, Brendon forcefully asked, pressing a finger against the header, "What is this?"  
  
He looked down at where Brendon was pointing and responded, "A newspaper."  
  
"Yeah, I fucking know that, Dallon," Brendon narrowed his eyes, his voice growing to a growl, "Tell me what this is  _on_ the newspaper."  
  
Dallon looked back down at it, longer than before then looked up and said, "An article."  
  
Brendon banged his fists against the dark wooden surface and leaned in close to Dallon, his voice growing even deeper than before, "Don't you fucking play games with me. You know  _exactly_ what this is. You double crossed me. You double crossed us. This. This was not our deal. You paid me to keep quiet about this shit. You were gonna accuse Gabe and that was it. If worst came to worst I would bail him out. Killing him was  _never part of the deal."_  
  
"So what are you gonna do?" Dallon shrugged, "You gonna kill me?"  
  
Leaning back on his leather chair, Brendon pulled out a pistol, casually pointing it at Dallon and mock shrugged, "Maybe I am."  
  
"You wouldn't do that," Dallon leaned back as well, crossing his arms and determined to call his bluff, "Cause that would mean you'd have to add another tally to your wrist. And we all know how much you love that."  
  
"We all also know that you don't have to shoot to kill," Brendon reminded, "But I don't think a traitor like you deserves to get off with a missing hand or a minor bullet wound."  
  
"Hmm, don't you think the term traitor is a little harsh?"  
  
"A little harsh?" Brendon had to pause for a moment to laugh before he snapped right back at him, "Maybe I should call you something else then, perhaps lowlife, or piece of shit? You turned your back on  _me_. And you turned your back on that little partner of yours. What was his business in this besides trying to do his job? He had no reason being down here in the first place but he followed you down here anyways because he  _trusted_ you.  
  
"When he came down here the other night, you don't know how badly I wanted to hell him. And if I knew shit would've ended up like this I sure as hell would've. So here's what's going to happen, Dallon. We're going to take you down to the basement, because blood stains are a living hell to clean up sometimes, and I will shoot you. Most likely in the chest. But don't worry about my tallies because once my boys are done with you, that bullet would've have made a difference anyways."  
  
For a moment, the taller man's face facade slipped, but he quickly regained its neutral state. He knew what happened in the basement below the hardware store. He'd seen it, he's even assisted a few times in the past. He also knew in situations like this, there was no way of getting out of there alive. So when the boys lifted him from where he sat, Dallon put up a bit of a struggle, determined to get out. He knew the layout of this place pretty well.  
  
But all that struggling to get away only resulted in a bullet being fired into his gut. "Dammit Dallon," Brendon sighed, "There better not be a mess to clean up from that. Now come on, let's go before this fucker bleeds all over my floor."


End file.
